


Love On a Real Train

by alexxphoenix42



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Competency Kink, Dubcon Kissing, First Kiss, Fluff, For a case, Implied sexy times, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Scent Kink, Sexy Stranger, Sherlock smells good, alternate first meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 12:33:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2068320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexxphoenix42/pseuds/alexxphoenix42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Sherlock and John's first meeting had gone just a tiny bit differently?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love On a Real Train

**Author's Note:**

> I loved a comment I saw on Tumblr recently -  
> jbcubbs-ultimatefanboy:  
> "Unaired pilot Johnlock already has had sex on every conceivable surface of the 221B, adopted a dog, and have put a down payment on their cottage in Sussex."
> 
> \-----
> 
> I adore the ideas of alternate first meetings of John and Sherlock where everyone doesn't have their walls firmly in place, and things get going sooner rather than torturous years later.
> 
> \-----

****

Dr. John Watson looked up from his book, and glanced out the train window. Night had fallen proper whilst he’d been reading, and all he saw was his own reflection, the ghost of a slightly rumpled man cast against the dark of the glass. He sighed. It was a privilege being able to attend the medical conference in Edinburgh, but the train ride back to London was longer than he liked, and he was ready to be home. He left his finger in the book to mark his place, and shifted to unkink the knot that had formed at his low back. A glance at his watch told him there was still an hour of the trip to go. He had just settled back and reopened his novel, a mid-rate murder mystery, when a tall, dark man in a long coat swept into the carriage. John couldn’t help looking up, then staring as he followed the fellow’s progress as he stalked up the aisle, for stalk was the only way to describe the imperious way his legs ate up the space. His piercing blue eyes swept the chairs and passengers as he paced the length of the train car until he lit upon John. He paused abruptly when he reached John’s row, and bent over to address him.

“Would you mind budging over? I have motion sickness, and I need to sit next to a window.”

John raised his eyebrows, and looked pointedly at the empty two chairs facing him. The man caught the movement, and shook his head. “That won’t work - I have to be facing the same direction the train is traveling.”

“All right.” John agreed, more out of boredom and the chance for a distraction over any need to accommodate the strange toff. The man shrugged out of his overcoat revealing the well-fitting, white button-down shirt he wore underneath, and John tried not to gape. This one was a looker, no doubt about it. The man stepped forward to bundle his coat onto the luggage shelf overhead, and John stood politely to change seats. He was already close enough to feel the man's body heat, when a sudden jolt in the train’s movement pitched him off balance, and John tumbled straight into him. His face landed smack in the stranger’s armpit, his hands latching onto his waist as he scrabbled for purchase. Thankfully the man had managed to grab the edge of the shelf, keeping them both from going arse over tit into the walkway. _Damn his bad leg!_

Time seemed to stretch and lengthen as John completely forgot where he was. The tall man smelled simply delicious, and John couldn’t help breathing in a deep lungful of him before any conscious decision had been made to do so. His deodorant had a pleasing woodsy scent to it, but the smell of the man underneath it was utterly captivating. For some reason, all it took was one sniff of this man plus of course the feel of that long, lean body pressed against him, and John was utterly gone. He felt light-headed from how fast his blood dropped to launch an erection. Usually the accidental touch of a stranger on public transport didn’t leave him hot and bothered, and ready to rut against someone - even if that someone was an oddly attractive, overly tall bloke now smirking down at him. This was . . . unusual to say the least.

“Excuse me.” John said collecting himself, turning nearly scarlet as he stepped back to break the contact.

“Think nothing of it.” The man returned with a shrug, and they sorted themselves out to find their seats.

The stranger reached up to slide the window open a crack. A small breeze slipped into the train carriage, and he leaned into it, letting it stir the long dark curls away from his forehead. John ran a hand over his own face, and tried to find his equilibrium. He realized it had been much too long since he'd gone out with anyone, and decided the lack of human contact must be wearing on him. When he got back home, he was definitely agreeing to one of those blind dates that Sarah, the doctor who ran the clinic where he worked, kept trying to set up for him. She had any number of divorced friends who were eager to share company with a single doctor. Since he’d returned from military service, dating had just seemed like another damned nuisance to avoid. Clearly though, that decision was now becoming a liability.

John located his dropped paperback, and opened it again, running a tongue over his lower lip as he tried to flip to the spot where he’d left off. He had just resumed reading when the stranger beside him squinted at his book, and scoffed. For some reason, John found the noise beyond irritating. He raised an eyebrow as he glared over at his new seatmate. “Something wrong?” He asked.

“It’s obvious the heiress didn’t do it. Of course it was the chauffer. It’s so cliché that the 'butler did it.'" The man made ironic air quotes with his fingers as he talked. "You’d think authors could come up with something a bit more original than that.” He finished with an actual roll of his eyes.

“Ta, very much.” John huffed. “I was enjoying this. I didn’t need to have someone who’s already finished the damned book spoiling the ending for me.”

“Oh, I haven’t read it.” The man said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s obvious from the cover what the mystery is. Most likely the owner of the mansion was involved in a secret religious cult, and the chauffer was his illegitimate son that he refused to acknowledge.”

John scanned the description on the back of the book as a look of incredulity danced across his face. “You’re having me on. You got all that from the cover?”

“You didn’t?” The man asked with another smirk tilting his cupid’s bow of a mouth. “Surely anyone of average intelligence could have puzzled that hackneyed plot out.”

Who _was_ this man? John couldn’t believe that those cheekbones were actually real. He found himself leaning in to take a deep breath as another whiff of the man’s scent drifted his way. It was like hearing the refrain of a favourite song, and trying to stop yourself from humming along. John dimly registered the clang as the doors at the end of the carriage slid open, but the man beside him tensed at the sound. His eyes darted to the door then back to John again.

“Pardon me.” Tall, dark, and annoying said locking the maximum wattage of his blue gaze onto John's.

“Wha . . .” John got out before the man bent down, wrapped a long elegant hand around the back of John’s skull, and pulled him into a kiss.

At first, John was simply stunned as their mouths made contact. The man seemed content to merely press their lips together and leave it at that, but one or the other of them shifted, mouths opened, and tongues naturally joined the skirmish. As soon as John felt the man’s tongue dip into his mouth, he was lost. With a groan, he reached up to thread his fingers into the bloke’s impossible head of curls, and surged in, giving the full-on Watson snog. He had felled many a proud man or woman with the complete extent of his lovemaking charms starting with his kiss that knocked off the doors, stormed the house, and took no prisoners. His posh seatmate was no exception, and he stiffened in surprise before finally surrendering, melting into John’s embrace.

It was quite a few minutes later, after much blissful kissing, before the two of them finally surfaced for some air. The man blinked, looking momentarily baffled as if he’d forgotten where he was and what he'd been doing before falling under the spell of John H. Watson. John found himself almost as equally undone, but managed to regain the power of speech before his alluring friend.

“Well, what brought that on?” John smiled kindly at his partner-in-kissing. “Generally I at least get to have a drink with someone before we’re sharing a lip lock like that.”

“I . . .” the man cleared his throat. “I apologize. I needed to hide from someone, and you were handy.”

“Oh, just handy was I?” John's brows knit together in the middle.

“I am a private investigator.” The man explained. “I’m trailing a suspect, who I believe caught sight of me following him. The old fellow is such a homophobe, I knew seeing two men kissing would shock him, and he’d turn his head and walk by without really looking.”

“Ah well, glad to be of service.” John shook his head. The man wasn’t just irritating, he was mad.

“Here, see.” The man reached into his back pocket, and fetching out his wallet, pulled out a business card that he pressed into John’s palm.

John held up the small white card that read simply “Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and private investigator” with a phone number and email address where he might be reached.

“Ah, interesting. Does that pay well then, being a detective?” John asked, looking over the card at the well-dressed man with bright eyes and slightly mussed hair, who if the card was correct, was named of all things, Sherlock.

“It varies, but probably pays better than being a part-time physician at a walk-in clinic in London.”

“Now, how did you know all that about me?” John asked with a smile.

After Sherlock explained how he had completely deduced John’s profession, military service, and recent conference trip from how he wore his collar, to the book he was reading, to the state of his luggage, John simply grinned at him.

“That was amazing.” He said.

Sherlock looked startled at the praise. “You think so?”

“Of course I do, that was simply amazing.” John tilted his head to better regard Sherlock. “You got everything but my name. Go on. How am I called?”

“Sorry.” Sherlock admitted with a wry smile. “I deduce facts, I don’t read minds. Give me a minute to pick your pocket though, and I’ll know much more about you.”

John laughed out loud at that. “I can imagine. How about I just tell you then? John Watson.” He said extending a hand.

Sherlock took it, and shook hands almost shyly. “Pleased to meet you, John. I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

“So, do you still need to follow this bloke?” John asked tipping his chin toward the exit the man had obviously used.

“No, I’ve already gotten all the information I need on him.” Sherlock assured him.

“So what are you investigating him for? Is this something you can talk about?” John asked.

Sherlock launched in to an amazing tale of tax evasion, assumed identity, and personal betrayal that had John on the edge of his seat as he listened avidly, stopping Sherlock only a few times with pointed questions. They were both startled when an announcement interrupted, the speakers crackling to life with a warning of their imminent arrival to King’s Cross Station.

“John, if you aren’t busy, would you care to get some dinner with me?" Sherlock looked almost surprised at himself for asking. "Fancy Chinese?”

“I think my schedule is quite clear tonight. I’d love to.” John beamed back at him.

It was only a few hours later, and they were back at John’s tiny bedsit collapsed across his bed, entwined under the twisted sheets, and catching their breath.  

“Who knew that attending a conference on infectious diseases would turn out so well?” John mused reaching out to trace a finger along one of those bewitching cheekbones.

“And to think I almost turned this case down as being too pedestrian.” Sherlock said turning his head to kiss John’s fingertips.

“It was fate.” John smiled.

“I don’t believe in fate.” Sherlock huffed.

“I do.” John said moving down to mouth at the side of Sherlock’s neck, and no more words were spoken that night that didn’t involve the invoking of deities, or the screaming of people’s names, and it was fine. It was more than fine.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the song "Love on a Real Train" by Tangerine Dream - featured on the classic movie, "Risky Business." Go find it on Youtube - it's divine.
> 
> \----
> 
> Quick note: I've ridden on trains between London and Edinburgh and the windows don't actually open on high-speed trains like these. Buuut, for the sake of a romantic story, we'll just pretend. OK? ;)


End file.
